


No Greater Devotion

by Bryony (REBB)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23055097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/REBB/pseuds/Bryony
Summary: Cullen and Cassandra both have reasons for spurning romance. But love has other plans.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 45
Kudos: 30





	1. Prologue: This is How the World Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader, everything about this fic terrifies me. I feel like I should have a bone-deep familiarity with the full DA cast and lore, but oh man I very much do not. There will surely be mistakes here. And I fear this prologue is setting me up for some novel-length story I won't be able to deliver. But, I wanna write a self-indulgent story about Cullen and Cassandra falling in luuuurve, so darn it I'm gonna try.
> 
> Title obviously comes from Grand Cleric Elthina's line, "There is no greater devotion than to lay one's life at the Maker's feet. There is no better death than to take the blow for another," which I thought fit both Cassandra and Cullen well (though *spoilers* I hasten to add I have no plans for anyone to die!). My headcanon is that it's a quote from the Chant of Light, so it may appear in the story in that context, but I don't think(!) actual canon backs that up anywhere.

Kirkwall was burning.

Cullen wrenched his gaze away from the grotesque, rigid features of his Knight-Commander, a woman he'd once respected -- admired, even. To all appearances Meredith was dead, but Kirkwall still burned. He could see the flames across the water and felt his very soul clench in response. The responsibility fell to him, now.

How many were left? Civilians? Templars? _Mages_?

Belatedly, he became aware of Hawke and her party warily staring at him.

The Templars, too; more of his brethren were swarming into the courtyard, swords drawn and cautiously circling the Champion. Without warning, he felt the person beside him move; the slight figure he recognized as Emeric's young protege Ser Moira darted forward and knelt in front of Meredith's deformed corpse. Her fingers tentatively reached out, then stopped short as if she suddenly thought better of touching the thing her former commanding officer had become. Moira's face was invisible behind her helm, but Cullen could easily imagine it when she turned beseechingly towards him. It must look exactly like his own.

Action. He needed to act.

Casting a meaningful look Hawke's way, he took an exaggerated backwards step. Catching his meaning, the men around him began to do the same. Glancing once at the Templars surrounding her, Hawke didn't waste time. A signal to her companions, and they were gone. Cullen tried to tamp down the disappointment he felt at watching her flee, the one person he might have hoped to defer to. Instead he had let her go. He'd _had to_ let her go. Whatever else the night held, that much was certain.

There were more pressing things to worry about than the Champion. He sucked in his breath and drew himself to his full stature.

"Ser Moira!" he shouted.

She started and leapt to her feet at his summons, raising a fist in salute. "Ser!"

"We must organize bucket brigades immediately. Group the men here into teams and dispatch them to Lowtown. Liaise with the city guard if you can, to find out where it's worst and coordinate your efforts. Our first priority now is to protect Kirkwall and do what we can to save the city. Do you understand?"

He could not outright order her to withhold from engaging with any mages they might meet without undermining his own authority, but she gave a sharp nod in response and he relaxed slightly.

"Evacuate whoever you can where the fires are in danger of spreading. The able-bodied can help assist. Have the infirm-" Have them what? The Chantry was gone -- destroyed. The entire city was in danger of falling. Just like -- no. No. Now was not the time to think of Kinloch. He would not fall into that trap. "Have them report here."

The Gallows. Where an abomination (for what else could he call it? Meredith might not have been a mage, but like any abomination she had not been entirely human at the end) stood that made mockery of the entire Templar Order.

Still, here, at least, there were stone walls, blankets, provisions -- protection, for those who would take it.

He would take care of Meredith. What remained of her.

"Felton!" he shouted next, directing this to one of the greener knights. "With me!"

Moira had responded well to his command, jumping to with alacrity. Ser Felton appeared to be having a harder time returning to his senses -- although he had clearly heard Cullen's order, there was an unsatisfying slowness to his movements, and an expression of dumb shock persisted on his face. "Hop to, man!" Cullen chivvied him, unable to offer any sympathy. They did not have time, not while Kirkwall burned.

"The… the mages are gone, ser," Felton despaired.

"All in good time, lad," said a voice to Cullen's right, not unsympathetically. He glanced over and saw Samson, looking shaken and weathered, but seemingly standing firm despite the events of the evening. Samson caught his look and nodded deferentially, with just a hint of something underneath. "Your order, Knight-Captain."

The courtyard was emptying around them, the other Templars following as Moira directed them to their tasks, allowing him to speak somewhat more freely.

He gestured to where Meredith's body rested on its knees, frozen in a rictus of agony. An eerie red light still emanated from her in flickering waves, like flames, but without heat. "Have you ever seen anything like this?" he asked the older man in hushed tones.

"Not in all my life," Samson replied, and spat. "Thank Andraste."

Sword in hand, Cullen carefully approached Meredith's remains. As he got closer, he better understood both the draw Ser Moira had appeared to feel towards the unusual corpse, and her unease. There was a resonance he could feel between Meredith's body and the lyrium in his blood, but it rang dissonant and sour, setting his teeth on edge. The last thing he wanted to do was touch…her; it; whatever Meredith had become. He used his swordpoint to probe the body. There was no give to it; it did not have the feel of flesh, even flesh that has been seared by mage fire. It appeared to be fused to the ground; they would not be able to move it, not without tearing up the stone.

"Watch it there, boy!" Samson barked from behind him. Cullen turned to see Felton frozen in a bent over posture, his hand reaching for something on the ground. Samson continued: "You don't just go about picking up strange things you don't understand without first determining if they're safe -- have the Templars taught you nothing?"

"Sorry, ser," Felton muttered, withdrawing his hand and straightening. He took a large step backwards for good measure and stiffened to attention, holding himself absurdly still.

Samson took a step nearer to Cullen, rolling his eyes. In a low voice he added, "Boy's got the right of it in one respect, though; there's more to clean up out here than just her highness." He discreetly displayed what he held in his own hand, wrapped in a plain white handkerchief: a broken shard of Meredith's sword. Cullen felt sick at the sight of it.

He nodded once in acknowledgment, then moved past Samson back towards the junior Templar. "We require oil. Fetch some from the store rooms and bring it back here as quick as you can. As much as you can carry. Canvas, too." Felton's eyes slipped past him to land on Meredith. His chin trembled, but he nodded and ran to do Cullen's bidding.

"Think she'll burn?" Samson asked him.

"I don't know," Cullen replied honestly. His voice came out with a hoarse edge and he cleared his throat. "With enough oil, perhaps. But we must try."

They handled the body of Knight-Commander Meredith as if it held the plague. For all they knew, it did. While the fires of Kirkwall raged uncontrolled outside the Gallows, inside their gates they built a smaller fire; a funeral pyre. Cullen did not pretend to understand the madness that had infected Meredith's mind, or how it might relate to the monstrous sword she'd carried. But he knew, whatever the cause, they had to stop it spreading. So they dismantled the nearby merchant stalls and smashed every crate they could find to pile the wood high. They wrapped cloths around their hands and faces when they draped Meredith in her canvas shroud, and then they added those to the pyre, too, dousing everything with the oil Felton supplied before setting it alight. There was a prayer for his Knight-Commander in Cullen's mind, but not on his lips; all three of them were silent.

The broken pieces of Meredith's sword would not burn, however. They scoured the courtyard for them until Cullen was satisfied they'd found them all. Fainter than the gong-like resonance which had come from Meredith's body, the pieces still seemed to hum somehow when they were close enough, an unsettling feeling, but useful for locating them. These they wrapped in another piece of canvas.

"What do you mean to do with them?" Samson asked him.

"I don't know yet," Cullen growled in response. The night was wearing on him. The gravity of the Templars' failure sat heavy in his chest -- a glittering sharp edge he could not afford to let his mind catch on, lest it bleed him dry.

"Lyrium, she said it was, didn't she? Not like any lyrium I've ever seen. Might be one of the Tranquil could make something of it." At Cullen's glare he added in a mutter, "Just a thought."

There hadn't been a moment to spare to think about the Tranquil. But of course, they wouldn't have rebelled with the others. There was a chance, just a chance, some few of them might still be in the Gallows, if they hadn't been caught up in the fighting or fallen victim to Orsino's blood magic.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. "What did it look like inside, Felton?"

"It was quiet, ser," he answered tentatively. "I saw no one except the fallen."

Maker's breath. He'd told Moira to send people here to escape the fires, but his mind had been so consumed by Meredith he hadn't stopped to consider the aftermath of the other battles fought here tonight. How many more bodies were there inside?

He picked up the bundle containing the sword fragments and handed the remainder of the canvas sheeting to Samson. "Kindly begin to see to those inside. Treat them with what dignity you can. Try to keep a record of the names. I am going to put this under lock and key and then I will rejoin you."

Samson's mouth twisted with distaste, which Cullen couldn't blame him for, but he didn't protest the order, nodding stiffly. What Cullen didn't ask, although he wanted to, was for Samson to shield Felton from their task as best he could. In the moment, he had thought keeping the boy from the ravaged city would be a kindness, but at least there the dead would have been largely strangers, not former comrades, former charges. Too late now. He would have to do better going forward.

Cullen left them and hurriedly made his way across the courtyard for the entrance to the Templar Hall. There were two safes in Meredith's office. He had the combination to one of them. He would store the fragments of the sword there and return as quickly as he could.

The halls in this wing of the Gallows, at least, were relatively unscathed. If somewhere was needed to house civilians ferried across from Lowtown in the coming days, it would do. Maker knew, some of the quarters would be standing empty after tonight. He wondered again, how many from their garrison of two hundred men had they lost today? How many of the seven hundred mages under their care? He shook his head -- he would know the answers to those questions soon enough, but now was not the time to be dwelling on them.

He was still in Meredith's office when he heard the first sign of life that he'd encountered since entering the wing: running footsteps. Armored ones. He ran out into the hall and almost collided with Ser Gillian.

"Knight-Captain!" she exclaimed. "Thank the Maker. Please, ser, you must come right away. They'll listen to you."

"What is it?" he asked as they turned immediately back the way Gillian had come.

"Confrontation in the kitchens, ser. It's best you see for yourself." The tremble in her voice was not just due to her being out of breath, and foreboding bloomed in Cullen's chest.

"It's not more blood magic is it?" he demanded as they hurried downstairs. He had to know at least that much.

"I -- don't think so, ser," was all Gillian replied, but the hesitation in her voice gave him some indication of what to expect.

Through the dining hall. Cullen habitually swept it with his eyes. It was eerie; he had never seen the place so empty, so silent. The tables remained upright, but many of the benches were haphazardly pushed out as if the occupants had left in a hurry. The remains of meals sat abandoned and long cold.

As they descended the final flight of steps into the kitchens he could hear voices echoing off the stone, too mixed up together to make out clearly beyond the raised and angry tones. And he could feel the air change, growing thick with magic-dampening effects.

The scene, when he finally cleared the last step and ducked under the low-hanging lintel to the kitchen, was not quite the dire picture he'd been imagining. After so much horror, it was almost comedic, the sight of Myron, the garrison's cook, red-faced and brandishing a frying pan, squaring off against the equally puffed-up Knight-Lieutenant Karras.

The sight of Karras's drawn blade, wet and shining with fresh blood, however, put paid to that.

He had to shout to make himself heard over the din; rather wished he had a pan of his own he could bang on to get the quarreling men's attention. When he finally had it, silence fell like a stone. "What's going on here, then?" he asked with a deceptive calm. Ser Gillian shifted subtly beside him, a hand brushing her pommel. Myron had his mouth open to answer, but Cullen cut across him with a look. "Knight-Lieutenant?" he prompted, enunciating each syllable so it could cut glass.

Karras's lip curled under his heavy blond muttonchops. "This _fool_ 's trying to harbor mages down here," he spat, barely sparing Cullen a glance.

The other man's face purpled. "Harboring?" he sputtered, "This is the sodding _Circle_! Bloody imbecile coming down here to _my kitchen_ going on about _harboring mages_ -"

"Enough," Cullen snapped. He shoved past them both. Slumped on the floor behind one of the countertops was one of the enchanters. No doubt the source of the argument. The woman's eyes were open, but rolling wildly; plainly she was still reeling from the effects of a recent smite. A bruise bloomed on her jaw, but she appeared otherwise uninjured. The blood on Karras's sword was not hers. For the moment.

How much simpler would it be for him to simply turn around and leave her there? One more mage casualty, what difference would it make amongst the rest of the night's bloodshed? It would make his life easier, that was a certainty. Alienating a man like Karras, that was inviting trouble. Better to keep him on side, surely; the chaos in Kirkwall would not end overnight, and he would need a stable command to restore order.

And yet.

Taking his time, Cullen drew himself up, bringing all of his beleaguered authority to bear. In a mild tone he said, "Ser Karras, we are currently preparing the Gallows to receive an influx of refugees from the city. Your help would be gratefully received in the old prison courtyard."

Karras stared at him, aghast. "Refugees? _Here_? Are you mad? We're in the middle of a mage uprising!"

Cullen squared up to him. His skin crawled at leaving his back exposed to the mage on the floor, but of more immediate concern was Karras's unsheathed sword. He deliberately rested his own hand on his pommel as he stood close, staring the man down. Men of Karras's age were not always fond of taking their orders from someone younger; but Cullen's youth was not inexperience. He was taller; broader; stronger. He knew how to establish dominance. It was instinctive.

"The fighting is over," he said with deliberate slowness.

Karras's lips twitched into a sneer. "All due respect, Knight-Captain, but the Knight-Commander ordered the Rite of Annulment. The fighting will not be over until those orders are complete."

"We have received no writ from any Grand Cleric instructing the Rite," Cullen countered. "Those orders were invalid. Indeed, _any_ order issued by Knight-Commander Meredith is now void. The Knight-Commander is dead. You answer to me, or not at all. Is that understood?"

"You would just let these maleficar be?" Karras gasped. He gestured behind Cullen with the sword in his hand, heedless of the way it made the other people in the room shift. "After what they've done? Grand Cleric Elthina is dead! The _Chantry_ -"

"I am aware!" Cullen barked. The knot of tension inside him threatened to unravel -- _not yet_ , he willed himself. Drew in a deep breath. Made himself say it. "The Chantry is destroyed. However the entire _city_ will be next if we do not act to save it. Go outside, look across the water. Would you just watch it burn for the sake of revenge?"

Why not? He would have, once. Proudly. It was still tempting now: a soft target behind him, someone to punish for everything they'd suffered tonight. It was mages to blame, after all. But, "Our first duty is to protect the people of Kirkwall. The most immediate danger now is the fire. The mages who have fled tonight do not understand the first thing about survival outside the Circle. They will surely make their way to the Wounded Coast -- if they even get that far. They will be dealt with. _Later_."

Ser Karras was silent for a moment, his blond muttonchops bristling as he mulled over Cullen's words. "And what about this robe, then?" he asked at last, pointing again at the mage on the floor.

"Ser Gillian and I will see to her. Now move out, Ser Karras; I will not ask again."

The Knight-Lieutenant did not nod, nor salute, nor make any other gesture of good will or respect. But he did turn on his heel and leave the room. Cullen breathed a silent sigh of relief as he watched Karras sheathe his sword. Until a rasping voice said from below, "You're letting him go? After what he did?"

He turned sharply, his mouth tightening as he met the mage's eye. "That sounds very like the argument he was just trying to make against you," he pointed out.

"Delia's not done nothing," Myron interjected, as he bent down to help ease her into a sitting position. "That knight of yours, on the other hand -- black as they come."

"We have all done things not to be proud of this night," he replied, refusing to be drawn.

The cook let out an incredulous bark of laughter. Leaning on his arm, the mage, Delia, levered herself upright, stubbornly refusing to break eye contact as she did so. She was an older woman, with steely grey hair and her own air of authority, even helpless as Karras's smite had made her. "That is your mistake, then," she said to him. "Ser Karras takes great pride in what he's done."

Cullen did not dignify her with a response. He turned back to Ser Gillian. "Escort the enchanter to a set of private quarters. See to it that no one else tries to enter her room."

Something flashed across the mage's face while Gillian saluted him -- fear? outrage? -- and then was gone before he could identify it. She exchanged a look with Myron, intense and urgent. The wrath which Cullen had been suppressing rose up once more; he shoved his way between them, threateningly close, and demanded, "Who else is hiding down here? Tell me, or I promise you the person who finds them next will not be as merciful."

"You're mistaken, Knight-Captain," Delia interjected, wavering on her newly-found footing. "There is no one left."

"The cold storage," Myron added, jerking his head towards the enchanted pantry where the Gallows' perishables were kept. "See for yourself."

Cullen did so. Uncharacteristically, the heavy door to the storage was lying open. Leading with his blade, he cautiously descended two of the three steps within before he caught sight of the contents of the chamber, left on the floor surrounded by hanging shanks of venison and whole suckling pigs, and felt his stomach heave.

The apprentices. Not all of them, he knew at a glance, but several. Enough. The true targets of Karras's bloodied blade. _Mages_ , said one part of his mind with the coldness that had been with him since Kinloch, but -- _Children_ , said another. He backed hurriedly out of the room, knowing as he did that this was another of the sights that would never leave him.

Delia had been transferred to Gillian's custody, a firm elbow supporting her to stand. Myron surveyed him with crossed arms and a baleful gaze. He ignored the man in favor of the enchanter. "Were you trying to lead them to escape, or merely shelter?"

"I hardly think it matters now. Knight-Captain."

For all the flat finality of her answer, it didn't seem to him to contain any insolence. He let it go, and nodded to Gillian in dismissal. To Myron he said, "I will send a detail down to deal with this. Later."

The man scoffed, his lip curled in such a way that Cullen thought he might be about to spit at him. But all he said was, "And what of him that did it?"

"He is a Templar -- and not your concern." Myron's eyes narrowed, but before he could open his mouth Cullen continued, "There will be people coming here from Kirkwall who will need to be fed. I need to know, will you be able to do so? And is there anyone -- _anyone_ \-- left alive down here? Where are the other hands?"

Myron's jaw worked, chewing his words before he said them. "I'll feed whoever needs feeding. As to anyone left, I don't know. But they're not down here. Not mage, nor Templar, nor kitchen hand neither."

"All right." Cullen drew back, suppressing the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose where the worst of his tension seemed to be gathered. No further emergencies materializing to capture his attention, he gathered himself to return to Samson and young Felton. Exhaustion was prickling behind his eyes now that the adrenaline of the battle with Meredith was beginning to ebb, but he dared not think how long it would be before he or anyone would be able to find rest.

* * *

He did not sleep that night, nor the next day. But now that dusk had fallen once again, he found himself alone in his quarters, the first still moment in what felt like days. His lyrium kit sat open in his hand -- he'd missed yesterday's dose and his skin was beginning to crawl with need and the knowledge that once he'd downed the potion everything would just be that little bit easier -- yet he found himself strangely reluctant to drink.

Meredith's spectre still stood in the courtyard, untouched by the torches they'd set to it.

 _You should have acted sooner._ That was the simple truth of it; perhaps then it wouldn't have come to this. Portions of Kirkwall still glowed red across the water, reflected against the clouds, although the worst of the fires appeared to have burnt out. A garrison of two hundred men and women, seven hundred mages, more than a hundred Tranquil… The largest Circle in Thedas. And now…ruins. They still had no final reckoning of the numbers lost, but he wasn't optimistic. He had set Knight-Lieutenant Caspar to oversee the roll and provide him with updates; the most recent tally accounted for seventy-six Templars confirmed alive whose whereabouts were known, eleven remaining Tranquil, and a paltry twenty-three mages including the enchanter, Delia. Then there were the dead -- those they could identify. Fifty-nine Templar brothers; seventy-two mages; thirty-six slain Tranquil in the Gallows alone. Those numbers would only rise in the coming days.

He held up the philtre of lyrium, the candlelight behind it casting a blue glow, the color of calm, of comfort. The difficulty was, he didn't _want_ comfort. Not this time.

The lyrium had been the thing that got him through, after Ferelden. But he'd been scarcely more than a boy then, and too consumed by his own hurts to see beyond them. Part of him was still that boy. But he remembered another boy, too. One who had considered compassion for his charges to be part of his duty toward them. He hadn't thought that way for a long time, but --

_A foot, half come out of its shoe. Both so small._

A knock at the door made him start. "Yes? Enter."

It was Samson. "Begging your pardon, Knight-Captain." His eye fell on the lyrium in Cullen's hand and his face took on a different cast, almost…hungry, then smoothed.

Cullen suppressed a grimace of his own. He was not without pity for any Templar so far gone in their addiction, but it was distasteful to him, too. "What is it?" he asked, more sharply than he'd meant to.

Samson coughed to clear his throat. "The Tranquil, Maddox. I spoke to him about those fragments we collected, thought he could maybe take custody of them, see what he can figure out."

"I didn't authorize that."

"Well, no. That's why I'm here now, ain't it?"

Cullen shook his head. "I don't think it's wise."

"Respectfully, Knight-Captain, don't you think we ought to-"

"Your request has been noted. That's as far as I'm prepared to go at this time. There will be time for studying artifacts later."

Samson gave him an oily smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Right you are, Knight-Captain. As you say, ser."

"Was there anything else?" Cullen finally prompted when he made no move to leave.

"Oh, I doubt it's important, ser. Just some talk amongst the lads." Cullen lifted an expectant eyebrow. "Karras might be stirring them up a bit. Talking about mounting an expedition to the Wounded Coast, finishing the Rite of Annulment, that sort of thing. Seems there might be some question as to where a _true_ Templar's duties lie."

"Of course," Cullen huffed. Just what he needed.

"I wouldn't worry. So long as you show you're capable of leadership, make the right sort of decisions, people will fall in line. Troubling times, these. All the men want to know is who's looking out for them. That's who they'll follow."

Cullen was tempted to say Karras was welcome to whoever wished to follow him, for it would make his job easier to have them out of the way. He regretted the errant thought when, less than two weeks later, it transpired that Karras and twelve of the other surviving Templars had made off in the night. He was, however, grimly unsurprised by the desertion. The only thing that did give him pause was when Caspar informed him that Samson and one of the Tranquil were among the absconders.

His jaw clenched tight, he made his way to Meredith's office. There he discovered the safe, its door blasted off its hinges. The contents remained undisturbed -- apart from the missing shards of Meredith's lyrium sword.

He sank despairingly into the chair behind the desk muttering, "Maker damn you for a fool, Cullen Rutherford."

One more failure for his already long list.

His frown deepened as he caught sight of a half-hidden scratch on the surface of the desk. He shifted several stacks of the Knight-Commander's paperwork to expose it. The marks were old, the edges of the writing worn smooth -- no telling how long they had been there, but the words still sent a chill through his blood. Scratched deep into the wood, the declaration, _This is how the World ends_.

It was beginning to feel that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's random song reference courtesy of PJ Harvey's 'The Ministry of Defense,' which I listened to a lot for a few months while writing. I have the feeling a few more lyrics will make their way into future chapters (which is weird because I'm not usually a song fic kind of person, but hey). Next chapter - enter Cassandra!


	2. And Somewhere We Will Meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a quieter chapter than the last one- a bit shorter too. Not sure how consistent chapter lengths will turn out to be, but on the whole I think I would prefer to post shorter chapters more frequently if I can!

Kirkwall.

It had hardly been her favorite city even before the mage uprising. She did not expect the intervening years to have done it any favors.

The Gallows had begun to rise out of the sea on the horizon. Cassandra watched the line of the fortress, restlessly gripping the railing. The captain of their chartered ship had assured her that they would arrive by mid-afternoon, provided the wind held. She was glad of it; the confinement of sea travel did not agree with her. Regretfully the urgency of her mission precluded allowing herself the extra time which would have been required to undertake the journey from Val Royeaux by horse.

"Seeker Pentaghast, good morning," one of her companions politely greeted her, holding out a mug of weak tea in offering. She waved it off, knowing how unpleasant the ship's brew was. "It appears we will be arriving soon."

"Yes. Within a few hours, I'm told."

Four Seekers of Truth accompanied her, an extravagant number by some measures, but then as Leliana was so fond of reminding her, image was everything. And Divine Justinia wished to make plain that she still commanded authority. The people of Kirkwall would see that. Cassandra wished, however, that she could have the same certainty of their loyalty. What she wouldn't give to have young Daniel by her side! But of his whereabouts she'd had no word since Lord-Seeker Lambert broke from the Nevarran Accord. As it was, none of those with her were people she knew. All she had told them was that they sought the Champion of Kirkwall; the full nature of their search remained a closely-guarded secret.

"May I ask, do we sail for the Gallows or the city proper?"

"The Gallows. The Templars there have remained loyal to the Divine and I have written to the Knight-Captain requesting accommodation for the duration of our visit. He may have useful information for our search, as well."

The Seeker, Violette, released a quiet sigh. "I was in Kirkwall three years ago, following the collapse of the Circle."

"Oh?"

"Anselm and I both. I believe he has been dispatched there a few times over the years. Remarkable, the stink that emanates out from the armpit of Thedas, yet somehow no one can ever locate the source of the smell."

Cassandra snorted. "I have read the summary of past investigations in the city of course, but I would be gratified to hear your findings directly. I take it you may have thoughts which were left out of the official records."

"The scope of our work was limited," Violette replied with a shrug. "The Lord-Seeker wished to know if Templar actions over the years were justified. Considering the recorded instances of blood magic in and out of the Circle, one couldn't very well say they were not. But the Knight-Commander…there's more to know there, I'm certain of it."

"It's the Champion we must concern ourselves with now."

"As you say." Violette bowed her head and excused herself, leaving Cassandra to her thoughts.

* * *

The Knight-Captain and a retinue of Templars were there to greet them when their ship docked. Cassandra liked the look of him, solemn and with an honest air, but vowed not to be swayed by first impressions. He saluted as she descended the gangplank, enquiring, "You are Seeker Pentaghast?"

"I am. You received my letter, I take it."

"Yes." A wry smile dragged at one corner of his mouth, though she could see nothing amusing about her statement. "If you'll allow, I can show you and your companions to your quarters. Ser Gillian will oversee the transfer of your things."

"That will be fine. Thank you for your hospitality." She signaled to Violette and the others, and they fell into formation behind her. The Knight-Captain's gaze lingered over her and Anselm; he inclined his head in recognition and they wordlessly nodded back. There always was a certain distance between Seekers and Templars. She hoped that would not get in the way of her mission here.

The Gallows had been built to be an oppressive place, and it seemed to Cassandra all the more so for its eerie emptiness now. The Circle fallen, no mages remained to watch over and the garrison was a mere chapter now, running on a skeleton crew inside a stronghold far too large for their numbers.

As the Knight-Captain led them through the forecourt, Cassandra broke away in order to examine the dull red formation across the yard. She had read the reports and knew this to be all that remained of the former Knight-Commander Meredith. The ghastly countenance was no worse than that of the other statues which stood guard over the place, but somehow, undeniably, it evoked a sense of uneasiness the others did not. She had the sense that looking on it for too long would make a person queasy. Seeing it in person, she could understand the fearfulness which laced reports of the new substance, this red lyrium. Reports which had it that it was an expedition organized by the Champion which brought the stuff to Kirkwall.

"I try to avoid it," said the Knight-Captain's voice behind her. When she looked back at him he was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, an uneasy frown creasing his face.

"I do not blame you," she replied.

Sounding resigned, he added, "I am of course willing to discuss the circumstances further, if you wish, after you have settled in."

A not-so-subtle hint for her to get a move on? But respectfully given. Setting the bounds of his authority whilst recognizing her own -- fair enough, she decided and inclined her head toward him. "Lead on."

They saw Cassandra's companions to a pair of small double rooms situated across the hall from each other, where she left them with instructions to take an hour to refresh themselves. The Knight-Captain then led her further down the corridor. It was not lost on her where she was being taken when they reached the end of the hall and Rutherford withdrew a key to unlock the door there. She looked at him in frank surprise. "You do not need to place me here, Knight-Captain. I have no wish to displace anyone with my stay; I require no luxuries."

"That's as well, since we've very few luxuries to offer," he replied, opening the door to the Knight-Commander's quarters and stepping aside to let her enter. "However, you will require someplace to do your work undisturbed and I can assure you the quarters were not chosen out of mere deference."

Certainly the rooms were more than suitable, Cassandra saw as she walked around them, with an elegant sitting area and round table ideal for taking meals or working, and a comfortably-appointed bedroom beyond.

"You never thought to make these rooms your own?" she asked curiously.

The Knight-Captain shook his head. "My own sleeping quarters are across the corridor. I'm quite comfortable there. No, the fact is, no one else will touch these rooms."

Cassandra gave him a sharp glance, wondering if she was meant to find insult in that, but there was no trace of it in his manner. Nodding to herself, she withdrew a small package and tossed it face up onto the table. "You are familiar with this book?"

Rutherford looked at it and pulled a face. " _The Tale of the Champion_. Yes, I'm familiar with it."

"The Templars do not come out of it well," she observed.

"No."

"No fewer than three named apostates freely conducting themselves around the city."

"Yes. The book delights in portraying the Order as ignorant to events taking place under its nose, and incompetent to do anything about them in any case." The Knight-Captain scowled blackly and released a heavy breath through his nose. Cassandra circled, observing him closely.

"Where is the Champion of Kirkwall now, do you suppose?"

"Hawke?" Rutherford looked up at her, startled. "I -- I really couldn't say."

"Guess," Cassandra suggested. Firmly.

The Knight-Captain didn't shrink from her, she was pleased to see, subtly squaring himself to her instead. "In Ferelden, mayhaps. With the rebel mages."

It was not so -- that had been Leliana's first theory also, and her agents had investigated and refuted it months ago. Something of this must have shown on her face, for the Knight-Captain added with only a slight hesitation, "Your letter said nothing of Hawke. I take it…there is more to your visit than I was led to believe?"

"Her Holiness feels Hawke's presence may be of use in brokering peace," Cassandra acknowledged. "It is not something we felt was prudent to put in writing. I trust you will forgive the small deception."

The Knight-Captain inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Truthfully…it's something of a relief, in fact. The Seeker presence here three years ago was…trying, to say the least. The Templars' failings -- my failings -- I do not deny they are…significant. But I would much prefer to be your ally than your adversary, Seeker Pentaghast."

"I am glad to hear it," Cassandra replied, relaxing her stance and sinking down into one of the chairs. "I am not here in judgment. Not of the Templars, nor of you. Divine Justinia respects the work you have done to restore order to Kirkwall these last three years. Whatever the wrongs you have done, you have devised your own atonement, it would appear."

The Knight-Captain drew in a sharp breath. When he turned to look at her there was a new, albeit cautious, warmth to his expression. "I had not thought of it quite that way before." Then he looked away again. "I was the one to let Hawke go. I do not know where she went, but you will not find her in the city, I'm certain of that much."

"I did not expect to be that lucky," Cassandra noted dryly. "Still, Kirkwall is the best lead that we have." She tapped the cover of the book lying on the table. "Outside the city walls, this is one of the only sources of information about the Champion's life. And it concludes years before the Kirkwall Rebellion. The accounts the Seekers collected of that time vary wildly in their claims. There is no clear picture of what truly happened, only…fragments. Our best chance of piecing them together and discovering Hawke's plans lie here."

Rutherford snorted a laugh and rubbed a weary hand across his face. "Did Hawke ever have a plan? Things always just seemed to _happen_ around that woman."

"You were well acquainted with the Champion, then?"

"Er, no. No. Enough to recognize her; we were on speaking terms. She was making a name for herself even before she was named Champion and it was not unknown for her business to bring her to the Gallows from time to time. I daresay she found it rather amusing."

Cassandra frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

The Knight-Captain began to look distinctly uncomfortable. Cassandra narrowed her eyes, leaning forward in her seat to stare him down. "Forgive me," he murmured, "I should not have spoken out of turn."

"You did not. I am asking."

Reaching to rub a hand across the back of his neck, the Knight-Captain haltingly began to explain: "I have learned over the years, rather to my chagrin, that even the Templar Order is not wholly immune to matters of politics." Cassandra snorted and Rutherford ruefully met her eye. "Quite. Even before she became Champion, Hawke was, er, something of a special case. It's not that she was unknown to us as an apostate, but she was…protected. My very first year in Kirkwall, before I became Knight-Captain, before I'd even met Hawke, I'd heard tell of her and wanted to bring her in. As soon as Meredith got wind of it, she put a halt to my plan."

" _Meredith_ did?"

"Yes. I believe it served Meredith's purpose to have a convenient apostate scapegoat, should one be required, but there was a…financial element to it as well."

"Bribery?"

"Yes."

"By whom?"

"I cannot say for certain, but at a guess… I doubt I'd need look further than the author of this book." Rutherford tapped the cover in demonstration. "Varric Tethras is resident in the city should you wish to question him about Hawke's whereabouts, but he is a notorious liar. I would suggest you start your search with the Captain of the City Guard, Aveline Hendyr. She's the only other of Hawke's companions I know remaining in Kirkwall, and certainly the most likely of any of them to be of assistance."

Cassandra had indeed planned on paying a visit to the Guard Captain as soon as it was feasible, and was pleased to have her thoughts seconded by an outside source. Perhaps the Knight-Captain would be an acceptable fit for their plans… "This Varric Tethras," she said with some concern, "he is a liar, you say?"

Rutherford nodded. "He's…not a bad man, from what I gather, but not one to heel to figures of authority."

"Hmm." They would see about that. "His _Tale of the Champion_ \-- is it accurate, then?"

Rutherford spread his hands. "To an extent, certainly. But I was not witness to many of the adventures recounted in the book, so I cannot attest to the whole. Certainly I would say the Templars were neither so ignorant nor so bumbling as they were made to seem, although I am not sure a fuller accounting would have cast the Order in any better a light."

Cassandra grunted. "Is the physical description of Hawke accurate, at least?"

"I don't recall the particulars of the book's description, but I'm sure a true likeness could be produced for your reference."

"I thank you. That would be useful." She rose to her feet. "This has been most enlightening, Knight-Captain. I must now collect my companions -- we will do as you suggest and see what the Guard Captain can tell us in the first instance. And you and I will speak again."

The Knight-Captain straightened and saluted her as she walked past.

* * *

"What are your thoughts on Knight-Captain Cullen?" Cassandra asked as their group of five made their way down the steps of the Viscount's Keep. According to the Guard Captain's directions it was not far to their destination, only a short walk through the wide avenues of Hightown. A fresh breeze blew, carrying the scent of jasmine and heralding evening. Cassandra breathed deep; it was a pleasant change from the overpowering smell of the tannery that had followed them through the depths of Lowtown from the docks.

"I think he's been leading the Kirkwall chapter of Templars for three years, yet hasn't managed to earn a promotion to Knight-Commander," Violette spoke up, her carefully neutral tone belying the scorn implicit in the words. Anselm made a noise of agreement.

"His men appear to respect him," Karina replied more positively. "And Kirkwall has managed a return to stability while the rest of Thedas slides into chaos. That must speak in part to his abilities."

"Evans?" Cassandra prompted.

"Reserving judgment for the moment, Seeker Pentaghast. However able a leader he might be in a crisis, he seems to have lacked the foresight to prevent it."

"Hm," Cassandra grunted in acknowledgment. Pausing in the square they had just entered, she pointed. "I believe that is our destination."

From where they stood, it looked much like the other residences: stone and crawling ivy, attractive paving stones leading to the ornate entry. A casual observer would not think it abandoned. Inside was another matter: the key was stiff in the lock when Cassandra tried to turn it, and the smell of disuse wafted out as soon as she opened the door. Dust muffled their footsteps as they progressed through the anteroom into the main hall. Remarkable that no one had broken into the manse in the last three years -- but then, the Captain of the Guard had an interest in this place, the Champion of Kirkwall's own estate.

"Search everywhere," Cassandra commanded. Violette and Anselm disappeared upstairs. Karina headed for what appeared to be the servants' quarters, while Evans progressed forward, into the kitchen.

Cassandra turned left, and found herself in what appeared to be a library, dust sheets draping the shelves and furniture. She flung the nearest one away, revealing a tasteful writing desk beneath, its surface swept clean. The drawers stuck, the joints swollen with disuse and Kirkwall's humid air, but when she succeeded in yanking them open the papers inside appeared intact. She riffled through them, eventually coming across a slim pamphlet titled simply, _On the Rights and Suffering of Mages: A Manifesto_. Frowning, she began to read.

 _Magic is made to serve man, not rule over him._ _The refrain of every Chantry Mother for an Age or more. But this is blind, and blinds us in turn._

 _Andraste_ _suffered at the hands of_ _magisters_ _. Thus, she feared the influence of magic. But if the Maker_ _blamed magic for the magisters' actions_ _in the Black City_ _, why would He still gift us with it? The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker._

Cassandra's frown deepened. Blasphemy, and it only grew worse as she read further. She searched the pages for an author's name, but there was none. Unsurprising, for who would dare publish such thinking without the cover of anonymity to shield them?

Hawke was a known apostate. Could it be she herself was the author? At the very least, to have such a thing in her home, it would appear she had sympathies with such subversive thinking. The Champion of Kirkwall might be more dangerous than Cassandra had credited her for. Accounts of the tragedy at the Kirkwall Chantry placed her at the scene -- some had even said she was the one behind the explosion. Leliana, who had twice met the Champion, had always viewed these reports with some skepticism -- but it all fit.

And if that was the case, Cassandra would in no way be able to endorse Hawke to lead their Inquisition, not even as a mere figurehead. They needed someone who would be able to command the respect of both mage and Templar if they were to end this conflict, someone who would be able to move beyond the discovery that Tranquility could be ended and leave anger behind. Suddenly finding the truth of the Champion as a person gained urgency even over discovering her whereabouts.

"Cassandra."

She whirled at the whispered sound of her name, gasping. "Leliana!"

"Did I startle you?" The Left Hand's eyes twinkled with mischief. "I didn't mean to."

Cassandra glared. "We both know that you did. What are you doing here? Did you locate the Warden?"

Leliana's eyes darkened. "No. It appears she left Weisshaupt some months ago. I was able to confirm some sightings of her in the Anderfels, but I believe she may have gone west, beyond my ability to follow."

Cassandra slumped with the news. Their foremost hope was out of reach. They were left with Hawke, or -- she was still not prepared to think about the alternative. Bad enough, hearing Divine Justinia's parting words echo in her head: _Do take care, Cassandra. Bad enough we've misplaced the Hero of Ferelden -- if the Champion of Kirkwall proves rotten, in a pinch the Hero of Orlais may have to do._

Leliana was circling the room, her nimble footsteps silent on the tiles. Completing her circuit, she stopped short by Cassandra's side, lightly touching her wrist and pointing back out into the hall. "Isn't that the Amell family crest?"

Realizing her fist had unconsciously clenched Cassandra forced it to relax and moved to see what Leliana was pointing at. Her knowledge of heraldry was not very complete (her uncle Vestalus would be most disappointed were he there to see). She shrugged. "It may be… You think the Champion of Kirkwall may have some link to the Warden?"

"I don't know…but it's worth investigating. My ship sails for Antiva on tomorrow's tide, unless I can delay them. I'll see what I can found out about this in the meantime and try to contact you again before I leave."

"Antiva -- you think your friend will agree to the position, then?"

"I'm sure she will. Her help would be invaluable solely to the Conclave, at any event. Leaving the organization to the College of Clerics is bound to cause difficulties." They shared a grimace. Cassandra was sure neither of them was sorry to be away from the internal bickering and bureaucracy which would no doubt still be plaguing the tortuous preparations for the Conclave, now mere weeks away. "Have you recruited a Commander for us yet?"

Cassandra shook her head. "I wish to know more of the situation here first."

"Do not dally too long. Whoever it ends up being will have an unenviable job. They will need as much time as we can give them to prepare."

"I'm aware."

Leliana nodded. "I'd best away. I'll find you again tomorrow. Take care, Cassandra."

As the Left Hand stole back out of the house and melted into the gathering night, Cassandra turned her attention back to the shelves lining the Champion's study. Her mouth twisted in an ironic smile as she spotted _The Tale of the Champion_ by one Varric Tethras on one of the lower shelves. She pulled it out and read the personalized inscription on the inside cover:

_Hey Hawke - delivered as promised. Relax, it's only the good bits. You can thank me with a pint down at the Hanged Man. -V_

Her eyebrow shot up. Only the good bits? Clearly there would be plenty to be gained from extracting a fuller accounting of the tale of Champion from this Varric Tethras. They would have to see about tracking him down the next day. Guard Captain Aveline, for all her helpfulness in providing them entry to the Hawke estate, had had little else to add to what they already knew, and when she had claimed ignorance of the Champion's current whereabouts Cassandra had believed her.

Speaking of the Guard Captain… Cassandra brushed her hand over another Varric Tethras tome, her eye caught by the distinctive likeness on the cover of the woman she had just come from questioning. _Swords and Shields_. Curious, she flipped open the cover and began to read.

A page was all it took. Her eyes flowed over the words and she knew she had stumbled across exactly the book she had always wanted to read and never found, not even knowing her desire. The writing itself was -- well, it was pulp, embarrassing really, but sketched on the page in a few simple paragraphs was a woman Cassandra _recognized_. Here was someone who would live out the dreams she was too afraid to even voice, knowing them foolish. Here was a fantasy where it was not so foolish, where a woman like her might allow the sensible to be swept aside by passion. Where she might safely yield.

She had to snap the covers closed before she became too engrossed.

She glanced behind her -- the house was still quiet; she was still alone. With only a brief hesitation, she slipped the book into her satchel. No one here would miss it. And it was written by the same author as _The Tale of the Champion_. Reading it could provide her with some valuable insight, if not to the Champion herself, then to the man she would soon be questioning.

 _Evidence_ , she told herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always found it hard to reconcile Cassandra's seeming conviction at the start of DA2 that Hawke is the villain with the fact she was apparently hoping to recruit them or the Warden to lead the Inquisition; I hope what I've arrived at does the job! Piecing together little things like that and headcanons about what an apostate is doing poking their nose in the Gallows is one of the joys of fanficcing. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and left comments so far!!! I'm so sorry I'm so slow! I just keep getting sidetracked by reading other people's fics haha. Also trying to make sense of the lore and various plot points which happen outside the games proper, which, again...is not my strong point. I'll try to be a little faster with the next one!
> 
> (Two minor points: I know 'Mother Superior' is more our world than Thedas, but it just flowed better; and I deleted one of Leliana's in-game lines because I found it it too at odds with Inquisition.)

Cullen wasn't the only one whose eye was naturally drawn to Seeker Pentaghast. He was deep in conversation with his lieutenants over how best to divvy the week's training roster when the retinue of Seekers entered the refectory; all four of them looked over. In any close-knit company such as theirs outsiders were immediately noticeable, and Seekers were in any case meant to stand separate to the Order. But more simply, Seeker Pentaghast was -- striking. Body and face comprised of straight lines and sharp angles, she somehow gave the impression of perpetual forward motion, even standing still. How could one _not_ look at her when she entered a room?

"May we join you?" she asked, sitting down without waiting for an answer. He couldn't very well say no.

He knew from the watch logs that the Seeker's party had not returned until late in the night; they could not have had more than a few hours' rest, although they gave no sign of it. There was much he might have asked her, had they been alone -- but she hardly seemed troubled for conversation, even ignoring her fellow Seekers to focus with single-minded determination on her meal, the same bowl of Myron's thick barley stew and fresh bread that had been served to everyone. "I hope you found your rooms comfortable," he ventured.

"Very. Thank you."

She spoke with the same terseness with which she wrote, Cullen thought with some amusement, remembering the letter he had received informing him of her intended visit. The heavy script and curt tone had seemed ominous at the time; no longer.

His attempt at pleasantries complete, Cullen had just turned his attention back to his lieutenants when a messenger boy crept in from the rookery and shyly made his way to the table. "Seeker Pentaghast? A letter for you. The ravenmaster says it was redirected from Val Royeaux."

"Oh?" She looked up in surprise, accepting the proffered envelope, and Cullen watched her face slowly transform as she took in the script spelling out her name and the wax seal on the back. She tore it open eagerly and, as she read, her severe expression melted into something soft; a secret smile.

_Ah_ , he thought, _a lover_. And then, unbidden: _Lucky man._

"Knight-Captain?" Caspar discreetly coughed at his elbow and Cullen realized his distraction.

"Er, how is Felton's progress?" he asked, shaking himself. "Is he ready to start leading drills?"

The rest of the meal passed quickly and Cullen turned his mind to other business. He badly needed a few hours' peace in his office -- there was a stack of contracts waiting there needing his review and signature, but first he meant to see to the Seeker's request from yesterday. He was sure there had at one time, in the years after she was named Champion, been a portrait of Hawke hanging in the Viscount's Keep, but what had become of it he hadn't the faintest idea, and he could hardly consider it worth the time or resources required to track it down. No, but Ser Moira was gifted with a fair hand, he thought, having often supplemented her field reports with detailed maps or illustrations; she could likely put something together that would suffice.

She had lately taken on the Gallows' quartermaster duties, and he found her in her office adjacent to the storage rooms, wearing a rather anxious frown as she bent over her books. "Problem?" he asked. She jumped.

"Oh! Knight-Captain! No, ser, I'm sure it's nothing, only…"

He invited himself in and stood with his arms crossed near her desk. "Only what?"

Ser Moira scowled and shoved her ledger book towards him. "There's lyrium gone missing."

Cullen bit back a curse and bent over the figures.

"It's small amounts, so I only noticed when I did the latest reconciliation. I wasn't trying to keep it from you, ser… I hoped it was just a mistake in the figures at first. And then I wanted to have a solution before I brought it to your attention."

"And have you?"

"Not exactly, ser. Not beyond catching whoever it is doing the thieving and giving them a sound beating for their trouble." Cullen snorted and Moira nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot. Lowering her voice, she muttered, "I keep thinking…about the ones who left."

Cullen hummed in understanding. "It's unlikely to be them, although I've no doubt they've contributed to the disruption in the Chantry supply lines we've been experiencing." Disruption which only made news of the theft more troubling; they could ill afford any shortages at present. The contracts waiting in his office, several of them discreet attempts to mitigate that disruption by forming their own local supply chains, took on a renewed urgency. "Amounts this small, it's more likely one or two men trying to supplement their allotted doses."

Moira nodded. "I just don't like thinking of one of _us_ being behind it."

Neither did Cullen, if he were frank. But it was what it was. "You'll have to set up a watch, and stock will have to be taken every day until we resolve this. How many of your men have keys?" Would it be feasible for them to move the lyrium stores elsewhere?

By the time they had hammered out the details of a plan he'd almost forgotten what had brought him there. Moira stared at him as if he were mad once he explained. "The Seekers of Truth want me to _draw_ the Champion of Kirkwall?" she repeated dubiously.

"A sketch will do, it needn't be anything elaborate."

She sighed, apparently not reassured. "Well, when do they need it?"

Cullen was beginning to lose patience. "As soon as possible. I assume it won't take you long."

Moira shook her head but told him, "Wait there, then," while she fetched parchment and a stick of charcoal. Cullen watched with satisfaction as, in spite of Moira's grumblings and the occasional necessity to smudge over her mistakes, Hawke's distinctive image began to form under his eye. Broad strokes first: the outline of a face, the ghosts of eyes and nose and mouth; and then in one particularly artful sweep the familiar shaggy fringe of dark hair appeared and life seemed at last to jump onto the page. For the last, Moira wet her thumb and then there was even that ridiculous streak of war paint Hawke wore smeared across her nose. He nodded his approval. "That should do nicely. I'll see the Seeker knows she has you to thank for it."

"That's not necessary, ser," Moira hastily interjected, blushing when he cocked a brow at her and adding in a mutter, "I'd rather not catch the attention of the Seekers. You understand."

He did, at that. "Well. You have my thanks, at least." Tucking the sketch away for safekeeping he stood to go.

He stopped by the training yard on his way back to his office to observe the practice bouts in progress. Felton was indeed coming along, he was pleased to see. Hard-pressed by his opponent, he rallied at the last and managed to disarm them before Knight-Lieutenant Caspar called time on the match. Solid technique, but more important to Cullen's eye was the fortitude he was finally beginning to display. A far cry from the nervous boy he'd been three years ago. Then again, there are perhaps few things left which can rattle a man after he has witnessed his commanding officer's transformation to abomination.

It was later than he intended by the time he finally made it to his office, and no sooner had he seated himself than a knock sounded at the door. He rolled his eyes heavenward. _Of course._ "Yes?"

The door opened and he felt his eyebrows crawl towards his hairline when he saw who stood there. "A word, Knight-Captain?"

"Enchanter," he managed around his startlement, and gestured to the chair across from his. "What can I do for you?"

Enchanter Delia entered and closed the door behind her, but though she walked to the chair he indicated, she did not sit. She gripped the back of the seat, tightly enough that Cullen observed her knuckles whiten, belying her apparent boldness when she looked him in the eye and stated, "There is something I must tell you, but before I do I want something in return."

He could not quite suppress his scoff, leaning back in his seat and frowning at her. "I am not in the habit of making bargains with the mages in my care." They stared at each other for a cold minute before he relented slightly. "You have lived under my command the last three years. You should know by now I am not Meredith. If you think me a reasonable man, then tell me what you wish. But either way, you will out with whatever you have to tell me."

It had been a strange three years in many ways since he had assumed command of the Gallows, but one of the strangest was how easy it had become to almost forget their last remaining mage. Twenty-three, they had counted that first night. In the weeks and months that followed, that number went up and down by turns as they recaptured groups of apostates from the Wounded Coast and closer, relocated some to other Circles, lost others…

Three years later, the Templars of the Gallows were assigned watches and patrols within the fortress and without, as ever they had been, but things were not the same. The classrooms stood empty; the library abandoned. By rights Delia could have addressed him as a First Enchanter might a Knight-Commander, but in fact he hardly saw her. Left as the sole object of Templar scrutiny she became, ironically, easier to overlook; a solitary creature, choosing to take her meals down in the kitchen with Myron and allowed to sleep alone. And he, rather than addressing her, found it easier to pretend there weren't any mages left in the Gallows at all.

Her fingers tightened further on the chair back. At length she said, "There's to be a Conclave." Cullen blinked; he hadn't realized that she knew. "I wish to attend." He must have made some sort of face, for she added sharply, "You needn't look so surprised. I could have fled the Gallows, but I have not. Do you not think my perspective might be of value to such an undertaking?"

"Perhaps," he allowed. "I will think on it."

"I wish you to allow me to make my case to Seeker Pentaghast. When she leaves, I wish to be allowed to go with her."

"She would have to agree to such a thing herself," Cullen pointed out. "I cannot make promises on her behalf. Now what is this thing I must know?"

"But you will not stand in my way?" Delia persisted, leaning forward, her eyes on him intent. "You will let me make my case?"

"I will inform the Seeker of your desire. That is all I promise. _Now_."

The mage let out a long breath, then drew herself up and announced, "I believe Seeker Pentaghast's life is in danger."

* * *

Cassandra scowled at the hovel in front of her proclaiming itself to be the Hanged Man. As if there could be any doubt when over the door an enormous depiction -- highly stylized, but still to Cassandra's mind distasteful in the extreme -- of the eponymous man twisted back and forth by his feet with the breeze. She harrumphed her disgust, but by all accounts this was the most likely location for cornering their author, so she refrained from expressing her displeasure further, instead directing Anselm, Karina, and Evans to the exits before summoning Violette to her side and entering the tavern.

Despite the early hour, business was already in full swing, or perhaps last night's patrons were still yet to disperse. In either event, their entrance appeared to go largely unmarked by the men and women whose heads hung low over their cups; it seemed not even their blazing Seeker livery could rouse attention here. After casting a quick eye over the room Cassandra went directly to the counter to make their enquiries. At the name Tethras, the barman jerked his chin towards a table near the back, where a dwarven man was seated with a human woman.

He was well-dressed, a cut above the other patrons based on the quality of his shirt alone. While most of the other men and women in the bar were dressed in rough, undyed homespun, the dwarf's shirt was a deep red color and boasted detailed gold embroidery around the low collar and down to its hems. More gold flashed at his fingers and ears. Yet he did not seem out of place; there was no hint of self-consciousness to mark him as an outsider here. As Cassandra watched, appraising, he leaned back comfortably in his chair and laughed at something the woman beside him said.

They approached, their quarry looking up as they drew near, although his face remained cool. A raised eyebrow; a roguish quirk to his lips. "Can I help you ladies?"

"You are Varric Tethras?"

That, at least, caught his attention. The woman beside him made an abortive attempt to stand, her hands making for the sheathed daggers at her side, but a motion from Varric stilled her. After a moment she sat back down, albeit with an unpleasant scowl on her face.

"Seems like you know well enough who I am. But I'm afraid I don't know you. What say you help me out and tell me what this is all about, hmm?"

"We have questions for you. About Hawke."

The smile died on his face. "I see. Well. Sure. Just… give me a minute to settle my tab, then I'm all yours." He stood up and pushed the papers strewn across the table towards his companion. "We'll finish this up later, all right Mother Superior? I can get the rest of those notes off you next week. Meanwhile, you don't mind taking charge of this for me, do you?" After sharing a final, significant look with this 'Mother Superior', the dwarf excused himself and sidled towards the bar.

Cassandra eyed the pages with interest. She had stayed up far too late the previous night reading the first volume of _Swords and Shields_ , but from the little she could see the manuscript on the table did not appear to be linked to the next volume, and the woman clearly had no intention of letting her examine it further, jealously shielding the papers with her arms as she shuffled them together.

"Forgive me, but you don't exactly strike me as a Revered Mother," Violette snidely observed, her eyes on the woman's daggers.

She scoffed. "I'm his editor. Which means, when it comes to his books, that he relies on my guidance the same way most people rely on the Chantry. Allow me to warn you, by the way, if by some chance he doesn't keep our next appointment you won't just be bringing the dwarven Merchant's Guild down on your heads -- I'll personally see to it that the Coterie comes looking for him -- and you."

Cassandra rapped her fist on the table and leaned in to address the threat when Violette let out a shout. "The rat's trying to escape!"

"Go!" Cassandra barked, but her eyes didn't stray: Anselm and the others would prevent the dwarf's escape. When the woman's hand twitched towards her daggers Cassandra lunged across the table and grabbed her by the throat. "Do not think of it," she growled. "We are going to leave here peacefully. You will not try to stop us. You have no cause for fear; our mission here is just. Provided your friend cooperates he will not come to harm. We will return him once he has answered our questions. That is all."

The woman let out a gurgle and Cassandra released her, backing away until she was a safe distance from the door. Behind her, the woman coughed and sputtered, but the tavern remained largely undisturbed by the commotion.

Outside, she found the dwarf hanging between Karina and Evans' arms, looking somewhat worse for wear. Anselm and Violette looked on. "Let's go," she said to them.

Varric was paraded through the streets of Kirkwall. They marched him through the Lowtown marketplace, beginning to come alive with the morning, then up the long steps to Hightown. The city could look and it would see the Divine's authority on full display.

An hour passed during their trek, and in it, the dwarf complained. Karina or Evans cuffed him each time he opened his mouth, but though he winced and cringed, it did not deter him. He still marched readily enough, though, which was all that mattered -- until they came within sight of Hawke's estate. Then he planted his feet and would not go further. So they dragged him.

Head bowed, body limp, they brought him into the house. Cassandra directed them into the library she'd explored the night before. At her gesture, Karina and Evans threw him into a chair, then stood to attention on either side, awaiting her order.

She picked up the inscribed copy of _Tale of the Champion_ she had found on the shelf last night, leafing through its familiar pages one last time, then raised her eyes to examine its author.

Varric was collecting himself. She was expecting defiance, but instead he appeared subdued, shaking himself before peering up at her and stating with a rueful chuckle, "I've had gentler invitations."

She didn't trust it. But she could crack him -- _would_ crack him. "I am Cassandra Pentaghast," she told him, stepping forward. "Seeker of the Chantry."

She dismissed the others. Varric watched them go with interest, a sly gleam appearing in his eye. "And, uh, just what are you seeking?" _There_ \-- there was the defiance she'd expected, disguised in casual flippancy.

"The Champion."

"Which one?"

She lost her patience, striding forward and smashing the book into his nose. "You know _exactly_ why I'm here!" Drawing her knife, she held it to his throat -- by the Maker, she would _make_ him take her seriously. "Time to start talking, dwarf. They tell me you're good at it." Flipping the knife in her hand, she drove it down into the book which had fallen open in his lap. Breathing heavily, he gingerly reached down and picked it up. The blade had pierced all the way through, missing his flesh by a hairsbreadth.

Letting out a breathless laugh he asked, "What do you want to know?"

She smiled, satisfied, and told him, "Everything."

* * *

The truth was nothing like the book. It was nothing like she had expected.

Hawke was not a seditionist fomenting rebellion. She had not known of the red lyrium. The conspiracies she was suspected of did not exist. She had not even written the pamphlet on mages' rights that Cassandra had found in this very room. Word by word, Cassandra's suspicions were stripped away and transformed into -- into admiration. For all the failings Marian Hawke demonstrated -- and there were many, even in Tethras's recounting -- she had acted where others would not. Even in the wake of loss after loss -- sister; brother; mother -- she had _tried_ , and Cassandra would not fault her for it.

She was exactly the sort of person the Inquisition would need.

Unfortunately, the dwarf remained resolute in his insistence that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. The Champion had fled from Kirkwall in the aftermath of the Chantry's destruction and thereafter vanished. They were no closer to finding her than they were the Warden, which meant the Inquisition was no closer to finding its leader.

Much as it galled her to come away without the knowledge she needed most, the dwarf had answered all that she'd asked. "You are free to go," she told him with a sigh and opened the door. Violette and the others all turned at her entrance, leaping apart from where they had formed their own conference to stand to attention.

Cassandra ignored them and watched Varric depart, the evening mist swallowing him before he'd even left the square.

"Did he have the answers you were looking for?" Violette asked her.

"It was…enlightening," Cassandra replied, keeping her answer as vague as possible.

Someone else was lurking in the square. Cassandra fixed her gaze on them, eyes narrowing -- ah. Leliana. Good. She started forward and Leliana moved out from the shadows to meet her. "Did you-?"

"Gone," Cassandra told her. "Just like the Warden." She signaled to the other Seekers to leave them while Leliana frowned over the news. "Do we proceed with the original plan? Or keep looking?"

"It is in the Maker's hands now," Leliana said decisively. "We put our faith in Him."

Cassandra nodded her agreement. They could not delay; the Conclave might last weeks, or even months, but they could not depend upon that time to carry on searching for women who might never be found. If the Inquisition should be needed, they needed to be prepared to act. Word of it might even draw out the heroes they sought; so long as the rest of the infrastructure was in place, an Inquisitor could be appointed later on.

"One thing the dwarf did tell me: Hawke's mother was an Amell. So that was their family crest we saw."

"Yes; I found the details of the family tree. It seems Hawke and the Warden are second cousins, but from what I could uncover it seems unlikely they ever met -- at least, not before they both disappeared."

Cassandra growled in frustration. The Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, cousins, both vanished. Both, to varying extents, with dealings with the Grey Wardens. At least two companies of Orlesian Wardens, also vanished. It all seemed too much to be coincidence, yet nothing in their investigations could turn up anything more substantive. And now they were out of time. Leliana met her eye, wry sympathy etched in the lines of her mouth. At least she was not alone in her impotence. Cassandra squared her shoulders and pressed the Inquisition writ into Leliana's hands for safekeeping. "I will see you in Haven," she promised.

Leliana gave her a solemn nod in farewell and Cassandra turned to rejoin the other Seekers.

As they followed the circuitous route back to the docks, her mind remained troubled. Of all the events which had led to Kirkwall's tragedy, it seemed to her the greatest failing was the inaction by the Chantry. The situation with the Qunari which had led to Hawke's title could by some measures be considered unavoidable. But there should have been no need for the Champion to involve herself in Circle affairs. Grand Cleric Elthina, acting in good faith, should have defused the conflict long before it reached crisis point, yet it appeared she had not. From Varric's recounting, it seemed at best she had been guilty of gross complacency; at worst, purposeful negligence.

She recalled Justinia's frustration, still in the early days of her reign, with the Kirkwall bureaucracy, whose correspondence appeared so at odds with other reports, and which had eventually resulted in Leliana's being dispatched to the city to deliver a message of her own. At the time, Cassandra had simply been preoccupied with establishing the truth of the situation; it hadn't occurred to her that the Chantry itself might be contributing to its deterioration. Of course the College of Clerics and holy Mothers were not above infighting and petty power struggles, but there could be no doubt of their devotion to their congregations, surely; that was where true faith flourished, where charity and relief for the downtrodden were to be found. Now… She felt unmoored, uncertain.

In response, the core of her resolve hardened. Let it never be said that _she_ had failed to act when needed.

"Seeker Pentaghast?" Violette's polite tones recalled her from her thoughts. They were nearly at the jetty where boats to and from the Gallows docked; she could smell the refuse of the harbour.

Sighing, she turned -- and received a shield bash to the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS- has anyone round these parts read the Broken Earth trilogy by NK Jemisin? It's been on my mind a lot lately- there's a lot of parallels with DA (and I guess probably other fantasy series, but DA's my main fantasy reference point these days) and I'm sure someone smarter than me would have much better insights, which I want to hear about. XD


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I remembered belatedly that Seekers are supposed to be immune to mind control. I'm not sure quite how broadly the definition of 'mind control' should be interpreted, so let's just call the start of this chapter dramatic license? Hope you don't mind! 😬

She staggered back, blood streaming from her nose and a cut beneath her eye. But without need of conscious thought, she found her sword in her hand.

Violette's eyes met hers above her shield, cold and hard as her drawn blade. Anselm stood at her side, Karina and Evans behind them, the Lord Seeker's men after all.

Cassandra snarled, heedless of the blood filling her mouth and dripping down her chin. But before she could charge the _crack!_ of magic filled the air. Ice crystallized from the ether, forming like a second skin around Violette, freezing her to the spot.

"What in the Maker's name is this?" an outraged cry followed from the direction of the pier. "Lay down your weapons at once!"

Warily, Cassandra allowed her gaze to slide briefly away from the other Seekers to assess the newcomer. It was Kirkwall's Knight-Captain. And…an unknown mage.

"Never mind," Anselm barked to the others, "Kill all of them and be done!"

So that was how it was to be.

Cassandra bellowed a challenge and charged forward to meet him. Her sword crashed against Anselm's shield, then she danced back as Karina joined the fray. She could hear the slide of steel on steel as the Knight-Captain drew her other opponents but could spare him no further attention, too caught up in her own fight. Karina and Anselm fought well together, well trained, as all Seekers were. While Anselm engaged her head on, Karina moved to flank her. She might have admired their natural teamwork under other circumstances.

Relief came in the form of another spell, some form of spirit magic which set Karina screaming. Cassandra rounded on her, lashing out with her shield and sending her tumbling to the ground. But before she could finish her off Anselm was on her again.

As she probed his defenses there came a sound like breaking glass as the ice which had encased Violette shattered, then a high-pitched shriek of pain as a dozen razor-edged shards found their way past her armor. From the corner of her eye Cassandra saw the Knight-Captain lunge forward to take advantage. She fell back to give him room, luring Anselm with her, distancing him from his allies.

The world narrowed to the rhythm of her strikes, to the harsh sound her breaths, to the familiar patterns of her footwork. She threw herself at him, again and again, slowly wearing down his guard, watching for the fatal error. When his shield dipped, her blade slid past it, glancing off his shoulder pauldron. It did not pierce the mail, but he stumbled. Cassandra pressed him, she _had him_ -

When suddenly she was on the ground, the breath gone from her lungs, the world flashing senselessly in and out of focus.

 _Karina_. The woman was on top of her, still spell-maddened and screaming, beating and clawing at her with her bare hands. Thank the Maker she appeared to have dropped her sword and shield in her frenzy. Her helm was gone, too, giving Cassandra glimpses of her bared teeth and wildly rolling eyes.

Cassandra's shield was trapped half beneath her body, preventing her from raising her left arm. But her sword arm…

She twisted her face aside, trying to avoid Karina's raking nails, and swung with all her might. The blow connected with Karina's ear. They rolled. Cassandra rose smoothly to her feet, then plunged her blade down into the unguarded flesh of Karina's neck, bringing her entire weight to bear. Karina's cries gurgled and went silent. Cassandra spun from the dead woman, bringing up her shield as she did, searching for Anselm.

He had not gone far. Cassandra found him stalking the mage who had appeared with the Knight-Captain; she herself was attempting to flee whilst fending him off, her attacks by now reduced to basic magical bolts. Cassandra sprinted forward to defend her. Though Violette lay crumpled and unmoving on the ground, Evans continued to occupy Knight-Captain Cullen's attention.

Anselm saw her coming; abandoning the mage, he turned to meet her. Their shields slammed together and he slid back a step, off balance -- _sloppy footwork_ , Cassandra thought with grim satisfaction, he must be tiring. She dug in, forcing him back again. When he attempted to disengage she sprang forward, leading with her blade now, bringing it down in an arc just over his elbow. Anselm cried out with the impact, but didn't drop his weapon -- raising his sword just in time to catch her next swing. Grunting with effort, she bore down harder. His weakened arm gave way and she caught him another glancing blow just as he twisted away, backstepping to his right in an effort to regain open ground at his back for a retreat.

He'd failed to account for the mage.

She could have fled back to a safe distance by then, but had instead stayed close. Now, instead of summoning a spell, she joined the melee with a single well-aimed swing from the bladed butt end of her staff. The blow hit the weakly-armored joints across the backs of Anselm's knees and his legs buckled. Cassandra followed with a strike to his head that sent him sprawling.

In desperation, he flung a fistful of dirt toward her face, but it was too little too late. They both knew he was done for. "Void take you," he gasped, before Cassandra brought down her blade for the final time.

When she looked up, the Knight-Captain was jogging to meet them. The battle was over.

Rush fading, the cold realization of death was left in its wake. Her eyes sought out Evans' body, then Violette and Karina's in turn, finally returning to Anselm.

The Seekers were a disparate order, and she could not in conscience follow their break with the Chantry, but they remained her people. She had travelled the Waking Sea with them from Orlais. She had not wished for this.

Lifting her hand in benediction she intoned over the fallen, "Walk in peace at the Maker's side." Drawing a breath, she turned to the others. "Thank you for your help. Both of you."

Knight-Captain Cullen dipped his head. "I'm pleased we were able to assist." Recollecting himself, he gestured to the mage, stood so close to them and yet somehow apart. "This is Enchanter Delia… the last loyal mage of Kirkwall."

He said it like a title. Cassandra eyed her with interest, and as if this was the permission she had been waiting for, she stepped forward. "I do not have much in the way of healing," she murmured in apparent apology, "but with your permission I might at least stop the bleeding."

"My thanks," Cassandra replied.

A cool tingle washed over her face, accompanied by the itch of knitting flesh. Unbuckling a gauntlet, she raised a hand to wipe at the crust of dried blood beneath her nose. Delia handed her a handkerchief to complete the job. She nodded once more in thanks, then returned her attention to the bodies of the four Seekers.

Reining in a swell of emotion, she knelt and began to search Anselm's pockets.

"How did you happen to find me?" she asked as she worked. An unusual thing, a Knight-Captain and an Enchanter to be wandering the docks together after dark.

Tight-lipped but intent, the Enchanter looked to the Knight-Captain to reply. A faint frown creased his face. "Delia overheard your colleagues as they were plotting. Once she came to me we made for the city at once. As for how we found you once we arrived…"

"The gulls," Delia supplied, gesturing vaguely upwards.

They were screaming and flapping to and fro from their roosts amongst the rooftops, woken and unsettled by the commotion. "A lucky thing for me," Cassandra observed. There were no shouts from people in the wake of their battle -- no lamps lit in windows, no one hurrying to investigate the scene. The absence was almost conspicuous. But that was Kirkwall.

Finding nothing of interest in Anselm's possession, she moved on to Violette. The Knight-Captain watched her closely. "Madness," he muttered, clarifying at Cassandra's sharp glance, "Breaking with the Nevarran Accord is one thing -- but attacking the Right Hand of the Divine? It's unconscionable. What were they hoping to achieve?"

Cassandra could speculate, but the bodies of the fallen yielded no insight. Perhaps a search of their room would unearth more -- some note of instruction from the Lord Seeker, _something_. Meanwhile: she turned back to the Enchanter. "What exactly did you overhear?"

She seemed surprised at being addressed directly. "Not very much. One of the men asked how long they were going to wait. Someone, a woman, I think, replied that they wanted to learn how close you were to finding what you were looking for. There was an argument. I didn't catch it all. Once I understood what I was hearing, I didn't stay."

"And this was yesterday?" Cassandra guessed. "Why did you not notify the Knight-Captain or myself at once?"

Her anger was not really for the Enchanter, but the mage provided a convenient target. Then she thought of Galyan's letter, tucked in her shirt pocket, and felt ashamed.

Enchanter Delia primly drew herself up, her face going closed and distant with the implied accusation. "I needed time to make sense of what I'd heard. It was not immediately clear to me the extent of the Seekers' disloyalty."

Or, perhaps, to whom she should extend her support. Mages held a tenuous position at the best of times, after all. In either case, it was done now. Cassandra could not truly begrudge the Enchanter her uncertainty.

She stood, wiping her hands on the handkerchief Delia had given her. "Anything else?"

A brief look passed between the Knight-Captain and the Enchanter. "I will fetch the City Guard," he announced, excusing himself. "They can deal with this from here."

Once he was lost from sight amongst the sharp corners and winding alleys of Kirkwall's docking district, Delia turned her direct gaze back on Cassandra. "Knight-Captain Cullen has granted me permission to attend the Conclave."

Cassandra raised a brow, at both the change in subject and its content. "The Conclave is intended to broker peace between the rebel mages and Templars. To my knowledge neither you nor the Templars here have broken from the Chantry."

"Yet surely you cannot deny that what happened in Kirkwall was key to all that unfolded after. The last time the Seekers came to Kirkwall, they did not speak to mages. You would not be speaking to me now if I had not forced my presence here-"

"You misunderstand me," Cassandra interrupted, raising a hand to forestall further argument. "I have no objection to your attendance. But you must be aware of the focus of the negotiations or you will find yourself disappointed."

"Then consider me forewarned," the Enchanter replied with a shrug. "I have spent my life negotiating peace with Templars. It is nothing new to me. But someone from Kirkwall must be there. Someone must be there who knows."

The words resounded like a struck gong in Cassandra's head. She frowned and thought of Varric. And of Kirkwall's Knight-Captain.

* * *

The return journey to the Gallows was quiet. Cassandra appeared preoccupied, he thought, but that was hardly surprising under the circumstances. She turned to him before they parted for the night and told him, "We should speak tomorrow."

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I am at your disposal."

But when there came a rap at his office door the next morning, it was not the Seeker who stuck her head inside but Ser Moira. Her face was solemn, but there was a banked triumph in her eyes. "I've got him, ser," she announced before unceremoniously hauling the proclaimed culprit through the door.

" _Felton_?" Cullen exclaimed, rising to his feet in astonishment.

The young Templar shuffled from side to side, keeping his head bowed and his eyes averted.

"Leave us," he instructed Moira.

Her mouth dropped open, but catching sight of his glare she bit back her protest. "Ser," she muttered grudgingly, giving Felton a rough shake as she released him and backed out through the door.

Cullen paced back and forth for a moment in silence, as much to calm his temper as to let Felton stew. "Is it true?" he finally asked. " _You_ stole from our lyrium stores?"

"Yes, ser," Felton mumbled. "It was me."

"Maker's breath, man, _why_?"

"I… It wasn't for me, ser; it was for Ser Braxton."

Cullen loosed a breath as understanding dawned. Ser Braxton -- the Gallows' oldest and longest-serving Templar. Yes, that made more sense. Pushing sixty, the man was a relic; completely lyrium-addled. A fine object of pity for the younger men. Or hostility, for some few of them: a mirror into an unwelcome future.

"He didn't ask me to, but I… His dose isn't high enough, he says, and he's been suffering for months, ser, you can see it in him; he needs it to function. I gave him some of my own ration, but it wasn't enough. And no one else was willing to split theirs. So I…" Felton wrung his hands together, then caught himself mid-fidget and deliberately clasped them behind his back instead, forcing himself to straighten to attention. "I take full responsibility, ser."

"This is a grave offense," Cullen told him. Going back behind his desk, he lifted the stack of contracts he had been perusing, then let the heavy pages drop with a loud _smack_. "Months of negotiation have gone into each of these. You understand we have been reduced to dealing with the _Carta_ to ensure our access to lyrium? And meanwhile, before our supply lines have even been secured, you risk the wellbeing of each man and woman stationed here for the sake of one. People have been dismissed from the Order for far less."

Felton's eyes had gotten rounder and rounder as Cullen spoke, but he made no further efforts to defend himself. "I understand, ser."

The lack of fight was almost as enraging as open insubordination would have been. "Get out of here while I decide what to do with you," Cullen ordered. "Consider yourself confined to your quarters until you hear otherwise."

"Ser."

Leaning on his fists, Cullen glared down at his paper-strewn desk long after the door clicked shut, as if the wood itself might yield up answers if he only pressed hard enough. What a Blighted mess. The fool boy had wanted only to do a good turn by one of his fellow men and now he faced losing his livelihood for it. More than that -- for where would he get lyrium to meet his own needs if even the Order itself was struggling? Well, the answer to that was readily apparent. With the Order tearing itself apart, desperation would surely drive him to throw in his lot with the rebels, those agents causing so much disruption to their supply lines in the first place.

The irony sat ill in Cullen's gut. He was fed up to the back teeth of Maker-blasted _lyrium_.

What good would it do anyone for Felton to be tossed out of the Order? What good would it do for him to stay? They were a Circle without mages, barely serving their purpose, barely keeping Kirkwall from plunging back into chaos…

It was in this position Cassandra finally found him some time later. "Am I interrupting?" she asked after a single look at him.

"On the contrary," he replied, straightening. "You are a welcome reprieve."

An answering smirk briefly played across her mouth. "You may not think so when you hear what I have come to discuss."

Cullen briefly massaged his forehead. "All right. Let's hear it."

Resting her hip on the corner of his desk, Cassandra waited for him to meet her eye. She had washed the blood from her face and her breastplate (the only armor she wore today), but even after a night's rest she looked tired. A new, thin line of puckered scar tissue marked her right cheekbone, still angry pink. His fingers itched with a sudden, irrational urge to touch it. He crossed his arms instead and nodded in readiness.

"I think it time you told me about Meredith."

Ah. Perhaps he had been foolish to think he might escape this conversation, but Maker help him, when she had brushed the topic aside the other day in favor of asking about Hawke…

Which reminded him. Shifting his stacks of papers about, he located Moira's sketch, nearly forgotten the hurry of embarking for Kirkwall the previous night, and handed it to her. A faint sound of recognition escaped her. "In case your search will continue without your colleagues."

"Thank you."

He nodded the thanks away, wondering just where he should begin on the subject of Meredith Stannard. As it always did when he thought of her, the gulf of culpability yawned wide at his feet. Cassandra tossed him a lifeline: "Varric told me Grand Cleric Elthina refused to intervene to stem Meredith's excesses, even when pressed to by the Champion."

"That's true," Cullen agreed.

"Did you never approach the Grand Cleric yourself?"

"I did not," he admitted. "The truth is I admired Meredith for a number of years. Even when she began to cross lines I would not have considered, I felt I owed her my loyalty. It seemed to me that it was better to work with her than against her, that the chaos of her removal would cause more harm than attempting to curb the worst of her excesses from within."

"I take it you have since changed your mind on that score."

"I was a fool," Cullen said bluntly. Cassandra made no reply. Her expression was smooth as glass, inscrutable, except for that piercing stare of hers, which remained fixed on him. He shifted restlessly away. "Magic is dangerous. Protections against it must exist. But I have no desire to be needlessly cruel to those afflicted with it. Meredith became unfit to lead when she lost the ability to distinguish between the two."

"Hmm." Cassandra stepped away, frowning in thought. "I am curious. What do you think would have happened in Kirkwall had Meredith not been driven mad by red lyrium?"

This was not one of the _what-ifs_ Cullen generally spent his sleepless nights considering. For a moment his mind stuttered helplessly over the question, unable to perceive its true shape or dimension. But then possibility crystallized into certainty. "I do not think it would have been much different. Meredith was on her path long before red lyrium came into her hands. It merely accelerated what was already in motion."

Cassandra nodded, taking this in, then faced him once more. "Tell me this, then. You have spoken of your regret following Meredith past the point you should. How will you avoid making the same mistakes again?"

This time Cullen was not caught unprepared: he had spent three years asking himself that very question. "I was an angry man when I first arrived in Kirkwall. I allowed that anger to lead me, to blind me to those things I did not wish to see. But I am not that person anymore. Working to bring order back to Kirkwall these last few years has reminded me of my principles, of the reasons I first joined the Templars. It is not the _Order_ I wish to serve, nor any commander, but the people of Thedas. It is not a lesson I will soon forget. It is perhaps why I do not march with the rebels now."

There was a smile on Cassandra's lips when he finished speaking. She stepped closer to him, and with her voice pitched confidentially, she told him, "In that case, I have a proposition for you."

He allowed her to lead him to a seat, and when she had sat down across from him, she told him about the Inquisition. "I want you to join us. If the Conclave fails, we will need a Commander. I think it should be you."

He felt dazed, too stunned by her offer to answer at first. Gradually he became aware of the pull inside him and realized that, yes, he wanted this. Something like hope flickered in his chest, coaxed back into life by her words after long lying dormant. But before he could get too far ahead of himself -- "I have a condition."

"Oh?" She plainly hadn't anticipated that, but looked at him expectantly.

He could not quite believe he was about to say these words aloud. Bracing himself for the rejection that must surely follow, he told her, "I wish to stop taking lyrium."

She stared at him in dumb shock, her eyebrows leaping toward her hairline. The silence stretched almost painfully.

It was as he thought, then.

Still, he did not drop his gaze and eventually the shock on Cassandra's face eased into thoughtfulness.

"You choose a hard path for yourself," she finally said. If he didn't know better he'd think that was admiration in her voice.

"If I am to leave the Templars, I will leave it behind fully," he replied, the forcefulness behind his words taking even him by surprise. He had not thought to ever have such an opportunity, but faced with it, he saw the desire had been building in him for years.

He had pledged himself to the Chantry, but that had not been enough. _Drink this_ , they had told him; and dutifully, he had done so. He had allowed the Order to subsume him in the service of something greater than himself. The lyrium was a promise, of strength, of certainty, but it came with a price. He saw it in the men twice his age, and in men not so very much older than him, now. He saw what he would become if he continued down this path, and seeing made his innards clench. He knew what it was not be in control of his body, his mind; the dread of it kept him awake night after night. Duty had become a choking weight round his neck; the promises given, ash in his mouth.

"What you ask is dangerous; I know of none who have succeeded in such an endeavor. I do know of the mental and physical suffering undergone by those who have tried, either by choice or through circumstance. Men have gone mad. Men have died. You are certain this is what you wish?"

"Yes." Even if Cassandra denied his request, he saw now he could not remain as he was. Would not.

She leaned back in her seat, looking him up and down. "If I am to agree to this, I have conditions of my own." His breath caught in his throat. This was already more than he expected. "First, you will not do this alone. I expect you to come to me when you need to, whenever your suffering is great. And it will be great, I am sure. Secondly, this cannot be allowed to put the Inquisition at risk. We will tell no one of your decision, at least until the worst has passed. I will monitor you. If I determine you are not fit for duty, you will step down. Thirdly, you will need a second-in-command whom you trust and who can be relied upon to fill in for you, no questions asked, when you are…indisposed."

"Yes," he agreed without hesitation, without question, scarcely able to believe his ears. Already he had an idea of whom he might call on to be his second…

Cassandra gave him a decisive nod. "Good. We are agreed, then." She held out her hand. Still hardly daring to believe this could be happening, Cullen reached out and took it. Her palm was warm and rough under his, hard with calluses, her grip firm and steady. "Welcome to the Inquisition, Commander."

 _Commander_ , he marveled. Maker's breath, what a gift she had given him. And he -- he must strive to be worthy of it.

Leaning forward, still with his hand in her own, still with her eyes boldly holding his, she added, "What you are doing is very brave. I will support you however I can… Cullen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a busy week in fandom, huh? Everyone excited for the new game? (Is it just me, or did I not spot any dwarves in the preview stuff?)


End file.
